Wait For Me
by viperone
Summary: He decided that this must not be Heaven after all, because not even dying had hurt as much as this loneliness. Part 3 up.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Wait For Me

Rating: PG, I guess.  
Summary: _"What John doesn't know will not cause him any grief."  
_Disclaimer: All characters mentioned (and those who are not) belong to Annie Proulx.  
A/N: This is the first of three chapters.

Chapter 1

The wind didn't howl over this part of Lightning Flats. It _keened_, a sad, lonely sound that perfectly suited the isolated ranch and its inhabitants. Looking at the house, its faded woodwork damn near falling off in places, Ennis couldn't help but feel that something was looming over him, frowning in disapproval like his daddy used to do when Ennis had done something wrong. He shivered, his shoulders hunching as he strode up to the sagging porch. Disapproval be damned; he'd come here with a purpose, and he didn't plan on leaving till he'd fulfilled it.

The front door opened before he could knock. Mrs. Twist, as faded as her home but with more strength than she let the world see, welcomed Ennis inside with a soft smile. "You'll have some coffee?"

"Thank 'e, ma'am. That'd be nice." Ennis took off his hat, hung it on the nail by the door. He pulled out a chair, the feet sliding smoothly across the floor. Staring self-consciously at the table, he said, "I 'ppreciate you havin' me here. I don't mean to trouble you."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Del Mar." She went into the tiny kitchen and began making the coffee. "John has gone into town," she added calmly, and he nodded, hearing what she didn't say. That John Twist, having spoken with Ennis once, saw no need to repeat the experience. She returned to the table and sat across from him, waiting patiently for him to speak.

Ennis cleared his throat. "I'd wanted t' do this sooner, but I had work . . . couldn't git away . . . " He sighed, looked her in the eye. "I'd like to . . . to visit Jack's grave," he said, voice sandpaper rough. "Say g'bye, and all." He broke her gaze, his eyes filling with tears though he clenched his jaw and tried to force them away. He pressed a thumb to the corner of each eye, his face burning with embarrassment. He heard Mrs. Twist get up and walk into the kitchen; by the time she returned with their coffee he'd scrubbed his tears away.

She placed a mug in front of him. Its' insides were stained tan from years of use. "Thank 'e." He took hold of the handle, but didn't drink; instead he ran one chapped finger along the curve of the ceramic, back and forth, back and forth . . . Mrs. Twist took her seat, folded her hands together on the table. "I admit I got to wonderin', sometimes, if you were real," she said quietly, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Jack, he always did like to tell tales. He'd see a picture somewhere and next thing I knew he'd be spinnin' some story about what he'd done there, an' the folks he'd met. Boy never was content with Lightning Flats; said it got lonely." She sipped her coffee, looked past Ennis to the window and the fields beyond. "Like you heard, his daddy got to thinkin' that Jack considered himself too good for here, too special, but I never did believe that. Way I saw it, Jack was just too big for this little ranch. And there was nothin' wrong with that."

Ennis took a drink of coffee, forcing it down past the lump in his throat. "Reckon Jack was too big fer just 'bout anywhere, ma'am." He folded his hands around the mug, stared at his wavering reflection. "'Cept mebbe Brokeback." He felt the prickling of tears again and sat back. "Shit. Beggin' yer pardon, ma'am, it's just . . . well, we was real good friends." A gust of wind rattled the window panes. Outside, something clattered against the porch railing.

"You'll excuse me for a moment," Mrs. Twist said kindly. Ennis, still staring into his mug, nodded. He listened as she left the dining room, the clicking of her shoes against the floor changing to hollow thumps as she climbed the stairs. Minutes eased by, and the coffee was cool by the time Mrs. Twist returned, a small metal box in her hands. She came around to stand by Ennis, offered him the box. Trembling, he took it. The box was dark gray, not too heavy, with a small clasp on one side.

"I would appreciate it, Mr. Del Mar, if you would take Jack's ashes to Brokeback Mountain." Her voice shook, and her eyes were bright, but she was smiling.

Ennis cleared his throat a few times before he answered. "I thought you meant to bury him here. In th' family plot."

"What John doesn't know will not cause him any grief. I see no shame in carrying out my boy's last wish." She returned to her chair. "You'll tell me about Brokeback Mountain?"

Ennis let out a shaky breath and gently placed the box on the table. Inside, a gaping wound caused by a father's refusal to accept his son began to close. "Yes, ma'am. I surely will."


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Wait for Me

Rating: PG, I guess.  
Summary: _"I'll miss you, grandpa"_  
Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize belong to Annie Proulx. Any you don't belong to _moi.  
_A/N: Part 2 of 3.

Part 2

1989

_The trailer shuddered, violent gusts rattling loose bits of siding. Inside, a little boy–thin, with reddish hair and brownish eyes–shuddered as well. "Grandpa, I don't like th' wind."_

_"Ain't nothin' but a storm blowin' past." Huddled in a cocoon of quilts, the boy watched as his grandpa rubbed at the bridle in his hands with an oiled cloth, slowly bring a muted shine back to the leather._

_"Why're you doin' that?"_

_"Cause some fool left it outside an' it got wet."_

_"Why'd he leave it outside?" The boy poked his head out of his nest, edged closer to the older man, who was seated in the trailer's one chair, next to the bed._

_"Told you. He's a fool."_

_"Doesn't he have a mama to tell him what to do? Mama never lets me leave my toys outside. She says if someone steals 'em I can't have any more." His grandpa smiled. It wasn't like his daddy's smile. Daddy smiled like a storm, big and loud, his teeth flashing white like lightning, his laugh booming like thunder. Grandpa smiled like the fireflies that came out on summer nights, there and gone, blink and you miss it. And he never seemed to laugh. "What, grandpa?"_

_"You ever stop talkin'?"_

_The little boy frowned, opened his mouth to say of **course** he stopped talking, to eat and sleep, and when his mama said 'Hush up, James' in **that** voice, but just then thunder rumbled through the air, sounding like trucks on the highway, and all that came out was a squeak. He ducked his head under the pile of quilts again._

_He heard his grandpa sigh. "Come on out, now. Thunder won't hurt you none."_

_He made a hole just big enough to see out of. "Mama always sings me a song when there's thunder. Will you sing me a song?"_

_"Ain't much good at singin'. Prob'ly scare you more'n the storm"  
_

_The little boy pushed out his bottom lip, widened his eyes, and sniffled. Just a bit. His grandpa sighed again, longer this time, and put the bridle on the bed. "Oh, fine. Git over here, then." When he was cuddled on his grandpa's lap, with two strong arms wrapped around him, the man said, "I ain't singin', though. Don't know th' words to most songs. Be happy with my hummin'."_

_"Yes, grandpa." The boy tipped his head back so that it rested on his grandpa's chest. He felt it vibrating as his grandpa began humming, a low and peaceful tune that wasn't anything like the songs he heard on the radio, or the lullabies his mama sang. A few notes along, his grandpa began rocking him slowly._

_By the time his grandpa's tears fell onto his hair, the little boy was fast asleep._

2007

_James entered the hospital room quietly, not wanting to wake his grandpa if he happened to be asleep._

_"Quit sneakin' around like that, boy, I ain't some spooky horse." The older man braced both hands flat on the bed, levered himself upright._

_James smiled. "Yes, grandpa. How're you doing?" He swung a wheeled chair next to the bed, sat with his elbows planted on his knees._

_The other man snorted; it turned into a rough cough. He gripped James' wrist as the young man began to stand; when the fit had passed, he let go. "Sit. I git fussed at enough when your mama and aunt come t' visit," he rasped. He took a sip of water from the glass that the nurses kept beside his bed, fixed dark eyes on his grandson. "I need t' ask a favor."_

2008

James shivered and tugged his ski cap down over his ears. The wind up here was fierce, the temperature easily in the single digits; his family was already most of the way down the trail, but James had one last thing to do.

From his jacket pocket James pulled a small glass jar with a screw-on lid. He nearly dropped it in the snow, his thick gloves making his fingers awkward; when he'd regained control, he cradled it against his chest with one hand and unscrewed the lid with the other. He tipped the jar forward and softly hummed a low, peaceful tune as thin streamers of ash–all that remained of two worn shirts–rushed toward the jagged mountain.

He recapped the empty jar, put it back in his pocket, then stood for long moments, eyes closed, enjoying the novelty of hearing nothing but the wind. His mom and aunt didn't understand why their father had wanted his ashes sprinkled out here in the middle of Nowhere, USA; James figured it had something to do with the bloodstained shirts, and the man whose name was scrawled on the back of a yellowed postcard that had been tacked up next to them.

A particularly strong gust of wind darted up under his jacket, and James sighed. If his grandpa was going to spend his eternity here, he hoped the old man wouldn't be bothered by the weather. Then James chuckled, imagining his grandpa's complaint: _"Shit, boy, quit fussin'! I'm **dead**, y' c'n give it a rest, now."_

"I'll miss you, grandpa," he said. "I hope you find your friend."

Favor done, goodbyes said, James began to make his way down the trail.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Wait for Me

Rating: PG, I guess.  
Summary: _"He decided that this must not be Heaven after all, because not even dying had hurt as much as this loneliness"  
_Disclaimer: All characters mentioned (and those who are not) belong to Annie Proulx.  
A/N: Third of three parts. I tried not to go overboard on the fluff. Hopefully I've succeeded! Oh, and I suppose I should mention that the title comes from the song "Til Kingdom Come", track 13 on Coldplay's X&Y album (which I also do not own).

Part 3

_The cabin is almost everything he imagined. Tightly built, with none of the drafts that plagued the house of his childhood, it has a wraparound porch furnished with deck chairs and an oversized hammock, bay windows that look out over the mountains and a lake, and a huge fireplace in the living room. It's beautiful, and he can't stand to be in it, because in his imaginings he was never alone._

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A soft wind ghosted through the forest, ruffling leaves and pine needles, kicking up waves on the mountain lake. It skirted along the crest of a hill and whisked up Jack's neck, scooping up his hat and tumbling it down the slope. He jumped up and tore after the hat, snatching it up just before it fell into the lake. Laughing, he turned. "Ennis, did ya . . . "

Kindly, the wind dried his tears.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jack sat by the fire, tipped his head back, and watched as glowing sparks danced into the sky. He reached down and ruffled his dog's silky brown ears. "How 'bout that, Rodeo? Betcha that's where stars come from." Unimpressed, Rodeo groaned, rolled onto his back, and waved his paws in the air. Jack rubbed the offered belly and chuckled at the lolling pink tongue. "Who're you showin' off for? Ain't nobody here . . . "

He stopped laughing and decided that this must not be Heaven after all, because not even dying had hurt as much as this loneliness.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jack wandered along the edge of one of the meadows, his head down, hands shoved into his pockets. He'd gotten antsy all of a sudden, and didn't know why. It was a bit like the restlessness he'd felt on Brokeback when that hailstorm had come rolling in, but as long as he'd been here–and he knew in his gut that he'd been here a long time–there had never once been a storm. The feeling was similar, though: a sense that something was coming, that something was going to _happen_, and that he could do nothing to stop it.

"Jack _Fuckin_' Twist."

Jack jerked his head up, caught a glimpse of blond hair and brown eyes; then Ennis' callused hands grabbed his collar and he was crushed against a tree, no chance to return the endearment before Ennis attacked his lips.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ennis leaned on the smooth log Jack had arranged near the fire. He stretched out his legs and smiled when Jack nudged them apart and sat between his knees, his back snugged against Ennis' chest. They sat quietly for awhile, Jack with his head resting on Ennis' shoulder, Ennis with his arms tight around Jack; then, with no warning, Ennis shivered and began to cry.

Jack half-turned, caressed Ennis' face. "Hey there, cowboy . . . " he whispered anxiously.

"'M sorry, Jack, I swear. I should'a never left you all them times, but I was so goddamn _scared_ . . . " he choked out.

"Ennis, Ennis, shhh." Jack rose, straddled Ennis' lap. He held the other man's face in his hands and stared into his reddened eyes. "It don't matter, not anymore," he said earnestly, tears welling in his own eyes. He shifted his grip to Ennis' arms, tugging him clear of the log. Then he reversed their earlier pose, clutching Ennis to his chest and stroking his hair.

"We got forever, friend," Jack promised, as Ennis began to calm. "Ain't _nobody_ gonna take that away. _I _swear."


End file.
